


Close Comfort

by DaIncredibleGG



Category: Joker (2019)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, I wanna say clothing fetish but not really, Lazy Mornings, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:14:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22766821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaIncredibleGG/pseuds/DaIncredibleGG
Summary: A lazy morning with Arthur.
Relationships: Arthur Fleck/You, Joker/You
Kudos: 26





	Close Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> Came up with this idea a week before my birthday (today) when I was feeling a little blue and wrote it out real quick. Hope y'all enjoy.

Morning always comes too quickly for them both.

The curtains, thick and blood red drown the morning light, but the cold breath of the frosted beast of winter from the city outside flutters them every now and again, enough to remind him how vampiric their nights together are. How the world outside will not wait for them to heal each other every time they can’t catch a break. It’s the part of the routine he truly despises. Watching those curtains puff outward as though pushed by phantoms, breathing.

She’s still asleep, cozy as a queen and holding him by the waist softly under their blankets. It’s funny- the first time they’d slept together he’d been certain they’d catch a cold like this- letting freezing air in like that. He should have known that her warmth would protect him. As it always has and does still now, with every soft breath into his shoulder, with every drowsy drag of her heartbeat. She is fire incarnate- even though she makes every claim to the contrary. In these sleepy hours they share, he knows the truth. He can feel it.

The curtains ruffle their impatience, letting the dreary light of day heckle him for his musings again. He hates to leave her, even though he should. It’s only temporary. A few short hours away and they’d be right back here. Where she softly kisses his cheeks and shoulders and lips. 

But she’ll have to leave too, he remembers. It’s either him or her. It just happens that he’s the one saddled with that choice today. 

So he sits up, allowing her arm to slide and fall over his concaving belly as he scooches forward and off the bed. 

The air of the room hitting his skin throws every nerve he has into whiplash. Through the thin faux-silk pants that drape delicately over his bony knees, even through his threadbare briefs. He presses on, running a hand through his hair, thinking of what to do first. He wants to make breakfast for her. A little bowl of oatmeal for the two of them. She’d like that, surely, but first to cure the chill on his skin.

His eyes catch on the big hamper in the corner, where a dark scrap of cloth hangs from the lip of the basket- a quirk to remind her that it can be worn again without much worry for odor. 

Arthur stands, and silently pads his way with the skill of a ballet dancer across the room, lifting the shirt from its resting place with the squares of his fingertips. 

It’s one of her favorites. A black tee, well worn. The thin cotton has lost its dark lustre from years of cheap detergent and wear, a few tiny star-like holes where his skin peeks out- places where its caught itself in zippers and jean buttons and the like. If he used enough force, he could tear the thing apart, but to do that would destroy him equally. The thing is enchanted, you see. She always seems to smile a little bit more brightly when she wears it, as old a thing as it is, and its magic is strong enough that it seems… he smiles a bit more seeing her in it too.

That’s when the idea rushes into his head like a crack of rusted thunder. He untangles the shirt slowly, turning the inside back out again. And then his arms loop their way through the bottom, weaving like little stick bugs through the sleeves. As he pulls it over his head, he breathes deep, and he didn’t know what to expect, but the stumble in his step at how the thing smells hits him.

It’s all her. All her, all over. The shampoo he’s worked into her hair and even his own once or twice. The faintest vestiges of the floral bouquet she dons when they decide they can’t stand to be in the apartment anymore. But among it all, he finds, overwhelmingly… a perfume entirely her own. Organic, biological. The kind that came in on a whirlwind and fills the apartment with its fumes and exterminates every care, worry and fear. It’s the kind of smell he misses in the sweat and the stink of the locker room at Haha’s. The kind you could lose so easily in the mountainous black bags, piled high on every street. 

But on him… on him it can’t fade into his day like the memory of a melody. On him it masks all, and for a moment he wonders if he can get through the day  _ all right _ for a change.

His fingers pad over the fabric, draped over his chest and stomach now like big concert hall curtains. His fingers finally can’t help themselves, curling under the hem of the collar and lifting it to his nose, enveloping it, letting all these things that are so naturally her fill his lungs so he might breathe anew. 

He turns when he hears a gentle hum behind him. Her hair hangs over her face, as she slowly lifts herself from their warm nest of pillows. A sleepy hand drags the hair behind her ears, and her eyes- barely open- still shine so brightly, even in the dark, just seeing him standing there. Love-struck in her shirt.

“Morning.” she mumbles airily. A grin ghosts over her lips, and she sits up. He runs his fingers over the fabric, a little ashamed of what he’s about to ask, but still knowing he’s safe enough to ask it at all.

“Can I wear this today?” 

His voice is so soft it barely sounds like he’s speaking it all. Her own nightshirt reveals a handsomely plush midriff as she sits up further, giving her pretty sleep-addled head a chance to truly take the sight of him in. 

“ ‘Course you can.”

Her shoulders curl as her arms settle sweetly in front of her, satisfaction and warmth ebbing from her every gesture, but the question is still implied with her head, lilting to the side as she savors this:  _ why? _

Arthur turns to her slowly, child-like with his hands caught in the cookie jar. He should be searching for words to tell her. Words that a poet might use, or a king. But he’s neither of those things. He’s just a man, who knows exactly what he wants to say in front of the one person he thinks he may ever truly love. And for that, his voice is quiet when he finds the courage to speak.

“... smells like you. Like home.”

At that the corners of her lips wane, but her eyes never leave him with their unerring softness. As though tired and cold be damned she throws the covers off of her, revealing half-naked thighs and underthings the world never sees. She strides to him and quickly enough to startle- her arms are around him- tight enough to keep Gotham from tugging him away. She breathes deep in his shoulder, and the bliss in her hum as she sighs out her contentment gives him enough strength to wrap his arms around her form, gently holding her back in kind. 

“I don’t wanna leave.” she mumbles. He scoffs at the sheer coincidence.

“Do you ever?”

“No.” she replies between nuzzles into the crook of his neck. 

At this she withdraws. A hand leaving its place to snake up his neck, letting her fingers admire the line of his jaw. She kisses him, and her lips melt his- chill to the touch. He returns, dancing his lips against hers like any proper gentleman should, and he thanks his instinct to hear her sigh into him for it. She’s still close enough to whisper when they break apart, and he knows the day will be all right… 

“But it makes coming back worth it.”


End file.
